


The First Rule of Art Club

by aristotle_chipotle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Paris (City), Pre-Inception, Sharing a Bed, Stress Relief, Team Bonding, Team Fluff, Team as Family, making art is the perfect way to pass the time before your very illegal mind heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27939860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aristotle_chipotle/pseuds/aristotle_chipotle
Summary: The team has four rooms rented out in the hotel for housing, and yet somehow everyone seems to end up in Cobb's.To make things worse, they found his art supplies.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception), Dom Cobb/Saito
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	The First Rule of Art Club

It was really impossible to pin the entire thing's blame on one particular person. It happened as a slow, unintentional violation of personal privacy, and it happened so subtly that it was almost impossible to notice until there was no going back.

It wasn't like they didn't have enough rooms or anything. Cobb had made sure that they did have enough rooms. _More_ than enough, actually. They had nothing but money to burn, but in the end, all they needed was four. Cobb and Arthur shared, per usual, and Eames agreed to share with Yusuf so Ariadne could have her own. Saito was in a suite three floors above their heads, inaccessible.

But if Cobb had to blame someone for the change, it was Ariadne. Maybe she got bored, or maybe she just wanted to talk. Whatever it was, she was at his door one afternoon, looking lost and eager.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I was just wondering... do you have any more of those nice pens?"

He showed her in, and fished around in his bag. There were two, rattling around at the bottom. They hadn't been used in years, but they were still good.

"Thanks," she said when he placed them in her hand. He waited for her to turn and go. Not in a rude way, but he'd been reading, and he'd been thinking about important things. Both were better hobbies to engage in in private.

"There's something else." he said.

"Well, I was wondering what you thought of these." She was holding an artistic folder in her hands, and opened it to a page covered in sketches.

Cobb immediately turned. "We've talked about this. I don't need to see-"

"Oh, this isn't for Fischer," she explained quickly. "We'll probably never use these. They're worthless. I was just wondering if you'd be willing to take a look."

Intrigued, Cobb examined the pages. They weren't worthless. Far from it, actually, but they were a beginner's designs in every stroke of the pen. There were impossible turns and shapes, and not impossible in the dream sense. Impossible in every sense of nature itself. Ariadne looked embarrassed.

Cobb smiled. "It's okay. It happens. Try imagining yourself walking through an area as you draw it. That makes it clearer on the page."

Ariadne closed the folder. "I'm starting to think I might not be the best..."

"Don't talk like that. Come on, kid. When I started out, I made the same mistakes."

She stared at him, smirking, unwilling to believe it.

"I'm serious! Look." He opened his bag again, reaching in until his fingers found the hidden pocket in the bottom. His breath caught slightly as he felt for the small notebook he hadn't touched in ages. It wasn't one he'd seriously designed in, but the first few pages still had some amateur sketches. He passed her the book.

"Wow," she said, smiling. "They're... well, they're not bad."

"Ariadne, if we're going to work together, you need to be absolutely truthful with me. How bad are they?"

She laughed. "Okay, okay, they're pretty bad, but the concept is nice."

"Those are from college," he added. "We used to do this exercise where... well, you might want to try. Go grab one of those big rolls of paper I got you from that store at Le Marais."

She returned shortly with the paper, and he cut a large piece and stuck it to the wall by the TV. Offering her a pen, he gestured to the paper.

"I find it's easier to work bigger," he said. "Use the balcony for reference, but ONLY reference. You need to make something new and inspired on the same scale."

"Seriously?"

"You're welcome in here anytime to work on it." Cobb grabbed his book again. "I don't mind."

That was how Ariadne ended up spending most of her free time in Cobb's room, drawing on the giant parchment on the wall, building a cityscape unlike anything he'd seen.

* * *

"I don't think the curves go well with the brutalism style you used for that other building down there."

Cobb knew he was losing his mind, because he could have sworn he heard Yusuf in his room when he went to open the door after getting coffee down the street.

But he wasn't crazy, because Yusuf was there, and so was Ariadne, and so was Arthur.

"I think it looks fine," said Arthur. "It's more unique. No city is going to be completely uniform in its design."

Cobb stood in the doorway, staring, while the three of them were critiquing his wall, or rather, what Ariadne had put there. She had a sizeable city going, and the page was starting to fill with detail.

"She's going to need another page," said Arthur flatly, not even looking at Cobb.

"Maybe two," added Yusuf. "It needs a financial district."

And when Ariadne saw his face, she said, "I hope you don't mind, but Yusuf wanted to take a look."

"Oh, not at all," said Cobb, more confused than welcoming. "Go ahead."

His room was bigger than the others' anyway. He and Arthur had more space, since they were storing supplies as well. It could fit a few extra people. He retired to the chair in the corner and watched the art show.

"Bring Eames, why don't you," he laughed to himself.

"Oh he's coming," said Arthur. "He ran out to get markers."

"Markers?"

"So we can help."

By the late evening, the drawing was three pages and stretched from the TV to the edge of the wall by the door. Then, Arthur taped another underneath so Ariadne could add a pond like the one they'd seen while wandering Paris. While she sketched, Yusuf added shadows that made the thing look almost real, and Eames and Arthur argued about colors for a solid thirty minutes, so loudly Cobb was worried they would get complaints.

That was how they found out that Arthur was red/green colorblind, and Eames stopped arguing.

* * *

When Cobb got back from the warehouse the next day, room service had been in, and the towels were folded and the bed was made neatly.

There was also a pink sticky note on the paper on the wall. Cobb felt his stomach sink, knowing that they were probably violating some rule with the wallpaper, and regretted having to take down his architect's masterpiece. But instead of a warning, the note was written in excited, curly letters, proclaiming how nice the drawing was.

Ariadne came in shortly after, and looked delighted when she saw the note.

"It's getting kind of big, don't you think?" laughed Cobb.

"It's easier now that it's bigger."

She was alone with him for only a few minutes before Arthur came in, not even minding her presence. He skipped any small-talk about the day's dream exercises and strategies and moved straight for the drawing, taking a marker to fill in some edges of stone houses.

Saito didn't see the drawing until later that night, when he came in to speak with Cobb privately. By then, Yusuf and Eames had joined. Cobb quickly saw that it would be easier to leave himself than to get the art club to pack up, so he and Saito went to the roof.

"What's all that?" asked Saito on the stairs.

"Honestly? I don't know anymore. It must be addictive, though."

All Saito's questions were about the upcoming job. He seemed uncertain and uneasy, and not in a way that doubted the team's capabilities. He had insisted to join them, but if Cobb didn't know better, he'd say he was having second thoughts. The reality of it was sinking in.

Cobb couldn't promise anything, he said. He wanted to say that everything would run smoothly, and that they'd be fine, but they rarely did, and they rarely were. It was a hazard of the trade.

"If I could make promises I would," said Cobb, the rooftop wind in his face. "But I can't. I'm... sorry, I guess."

"I wouldn't ask any more of you then. I know you're doing what you can."

Saito was remarkably understanding.

"Thank you," said Cobb.

"For what?"

"Paying for this." He gestured down at the hotel. "All of it. We could be sleeping in the warehouse right now."

Saito laughed. "I really could have done better. There's more than one luxury suite in this hotel. None of you would have to share."

"I don't do luxury suites," said Cobb.

_Not anymore, anyway._

"Besides," he added, "they'd all end up in mine anyway. You've seen that art project. It's going to take over my entire wall. I don't mind, though. It seems to be doing wonders for morale."

"I'm curious to see more," said Saito.

So he did. Cobb took him back downstairs and Ariadne gave him the tour of the thing. Eames took care to point out who'd colored which section. It was somewhat competitive, Cobb noted, the coloring.

And then the art club absorbed Saito too, surprisingly. Ariadne was a master of artistic design, but as far as practical buildings, like factories, she was quite literally drawing a blank. Cobb went downstairs again for coffee, and when he came back, Saito had taken off his coat and was using the notebook to sketch out a power plant for Ariadne to add to the skyline. It was a good drawing. It was an _incredible_ drawing.

* * *

That night, Ariadne and Yusuf and Saito returned to their rooms, but Eames stayed later, doodling in the notebook while Arthur watched. All the way up until Cobb decided to finally sleep, Eames had thrown off his shoes and was sitting on the opposite bed with a pencil, practicing faces on the paper. He was good at faces, Cobb noticed, but of course he would be. His doodling was just as good as anything Cobb had seen on university easels, but he did it so casually.

"You've got a nice face," Eames mumbled sleepily. "It's symmetrical. Easy to draw."

"My goal in life," Arthur sighed, undoing his tie. "To be easy to draw." Then, "You should really be going to bed."

"You're right. Goodnight." Eames faked falling asleep immediately on the bed, to Arthur's annoyance, and got decently shoved onto the floor. It took a good deal more difficulty to get him to leave the room, and when he was gone, Arthur shut the door firmly, but he was breathless, laughing in a way Cobb hadn't seen in a while.

The notebook had fallen in the gap behind Arthur's bed, and as Arthur went to wash up, Cobb grabbed it and opened it. It was almost half full now. There were a lot of Ariadne's pages. A few buildings you could see from the balcony. A hasty sketch of the Eiffel Tower, probably done from a moving vehicle. A particularly fat pigeon. A street sign for a bakery.

A quarter of the way in, Eames had taken over, and there was definitely a pattern. It was overwhelmingly Arthur. Portraits, done with amazing attention to detail. Arthur's eyes. Arthur's hands. Both drawn with the care and precision of someone who didn't spend much time looking at anything else. Cobb had never noticed anything particularly amazing in either, but they way they were depicted, you'd think Da Vinci himself had sculpted them. Eames had turned Arthur into art.

"That guy's going to get someone killed," grumbled Arthur from the bathroom. "Probably himself. Completely out of touch."

"Sure," said Cobb, smiling to himself.

* * *

Cobb only got a few hours after breakfast before the art club filed in. Ariadne spread out the spectrum of markers and got busy, putting the finishing touches on the power plant. Arthur even brought his breakfast up from the lobby and watched, ignoring Yusuf's pleas to keep all food away from the clean paper. Eames strolled in shortly after, critiquing all the errors Arthur was making in his ink lines, while Arthur countered that Eames didn't know the first thing about pens.

An hour later, there was a knock at the door.

"Saito too," sighed Cobb. "Why not."

But when he got the door, it was a delivery person, holding a large box.

"I think you might have the wrong room," said Cobb. "This is..."

"Mr. Charles," said the deliverer firmly. "Sign here please."

Cobb gave his standard fake signature and took the box warily. It was too light to be anything dangerous, but who knew he was here?

"Oooh," said Eames admiringly. "Open it."

Cobb set the box on the bed and removed the black paper, undoing the folded top and digging into several layers of light tissue paper.

"Holy-" He froze, staring at the contents. "I mean... wow... what?"

Immediately, they all gathered around the box.

Inside were about five thick books of coloring pages, and not easy ones either. They were the giant, detailed landscapes and cities and patterns that could take hours of collaboration to finish. Under that, a black carrying case that when unzipped, revealed row after row of expensive artist pens and inks and brushes that had to be handmade. Then sticks of charcoal and graphite, and the kneaded erasers that cleaned themselves and could last for years. Larger sheets of paper, quality paper, and a box set with real Yasutomo calligraphy ink brushes that Cobb had enough experience to know went for over a hundred dollars apiece.

Ariadne immediately got to it, folding out one of the large pages and attacking it with the color brushes. They went down smooth on the high-quality paper.

"This is incredible," she gasped.

"Wait," said Yusuf. "There's more."

The bottom layer were more books of paper, but leather-bound and each stenciled in silver with a single letter for personalization. Yusuf held up one stamped with a Y, raising his eyebrows.

"Do I have one?" asked Eames and Ariadne in unison.

Yusuf handed them out. Everyone had an initialed sketchbook. The last one, D, landed in Cobb's hands as Yusuf tossed it. Cobb opened the front cover to smell the fresh paper, and in doing so, noticed a handwritten note on the first page.

_For morale._

_-S_

"Damn it," he sighed.

"What?" asked Arthur.

"Saito."

Arthur grinned. "Who else?"

"He really shouldn't have... he has no idea-"

"Are you complaining?" laughed Yusuf. "We just got $1000 in free art supplies and you're _complaining?_ "

"It all seems unnecessary, don't you think?"

Unnecessary or not, they were all sitting on Cobb's floor that evening, filling page after page of paper with art and designs. Ariadne put the finishing touches on the wall city. Arthur carefully and deliberately worked on filling in one of the pages, and Eames sketched everyone and everything while Yusuf gave the calligraphy a try. It was impressive, all of it, Cobb thought. He sat in the chair in the corner, watching them work and talk and argue, trying to make sense of it.

"Come on," Arthur urged. "It's not that hard."

"I'm not that artistic," insisted Cobb, but he eventually gave in and joined. It wasn't productive, and it wasn't remotely related to the work they were supposed to be doing, except for maybe Ariadne, but it made him feel good. There was satisfaction in filling sections in with the ink that flowed so freely from the expensive pens.

They worked late, because it didn't feel like work at all, and it was only when the clock went off that Cobb realized they hadn't eaten.

He didn't even get to mention it before there was another knock on the door, and there was another delivery from a girl in a restaurant uniform who insisted that they were "catering an event" that had been called in that morning, and wouldn't take no for an answer as she pushed the paper bags of local cuisine into Cobb's arms.

"That's LaChappelle's," gasped Ariadne. "That's downtown. It's impossible to get stuff from them without a reservation months in advance."

"Is it now?" said Cobb, staring at the food. "Again, I'm not complaining, but-"

"Right," said Arthur. "We're not complaining. We're starving. This is the best thing to happen to me all day."

It was amazing. Not just the food, or the art, but the combination of the two, and how it created this atmosphere and energy that demanded participation, collaboration. It was the first time Cobb found himself forgetting, for a moment, why he was there in Paris, because Ariadne was quick-witted and Yusuf was hilarious, and no one seemed to care what was happening. They lost themselves in the paper. Maybe it was childish, but it was the best they'd felt in a while. Cobb didn't want it to end.

But as the night wore on, he found himself wondering.

"Everything okay?" asked Arthur. "You zoned out for a second."

"I'm fine," said Cobb, "I just... hang on, I'll be right back."

"You'd better promise. You're not running out on us that easy."

"I promise, okay?" Cobb raised his hands in mock surrender. "Give me five minutes."

* * *

The second floor from the top was one of the nicest, catering to the hotel's international and VIP visitors. Cobb noticed this in everything from the freshly-cleaned carpet to the wall sconces that look like works of art in and of themselves.

It was beautiful, but dead silent. Anyone who had a room here wouldn't be home enjoying it. They would be out in the city, exploring and dining at expensive restaurants and shopping. Not all of them, he hoped, as he walked down the hall.

He knocked on 721.

There was a pause, and he heard footsteps inside, he stepped back from the door as it opened. Saito stared at him, surprised.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"It's not that late," said Saito. "It's fine."

"Are you doing anything important?"

Saito laughed. "Do you think I only work, Mr. Cobb?"

"You have that... style, I guess." Cobb smiled. Then, his smile faltered. "You didn't need to order all that stuff."

"I know, but you needed it." Saito returned the smile. "How was dinner?"

"It's not gone," said Cobb. "You know, if you wanted to-"

He paused, exhaling, thinking carefully.

"I'm not asking," he said, changing his tone. "I'm the leader here, and I'm ordering it. You have to join us downstairs."

Saito looked confused.

"For morale," said Cobb.

"Tourists don't need morale boosts. It's not like I'm bringing anything to the table."

"I'm not asking. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way." Cobb stared at him expectantly, and then they both broke into laughter.

It was surreal, but it was nice, Cobb thought. He liked the way they talked.

* * *

"It's simple enough," said Eames, adjusting his grip on the pencil. "You just don't lift it from the page, and you can keep your spatial awareness of where everything is."

He closed his eyes, tracing steady, swirling lines on the paper while Ariadne giggled. When he'd finished, the product was messy, but it was undoubtedly Ariadne, who'd posed for the portrait. She took the drawing and whistled, impressed.

"One look is all I need," said Eames. He tapped his forehead. "It stays here."

"Easy," scoffed Arthur. "You don't need a photographic memory for that. You just have to remember what the person looks like."

"I'd like to see you try."

Arthur went next, taking a blank page, one long look at Eames, and closed his eyes, beginning to draw. His concentration as the room filled with soft laughter at the drawing he couldn't see. Maybe it was the wine they'd ordered, or maybe he was just that bad, but when he opened his eyes, the art was a mess.

"It helps," said Saito, "if the subject's eyes and mouth are on the same axis."

They laughed their way into the last pour, as Cobb finished the last of the wine and the clock indicated eleven. The floor was a mess of paper covered in good sketches and amateur sketches and everything in-between, and Cobb was draped across his chair, watching Ariadne try to draw famous landmarks and celebrities from memory. The art games devolved into careless shouting and laughter as Yusuf transcribed weird and occasionally obscene phrases with his newfound calligraphy ability, and Arthur made ink blots on paper and attempted to psychoanalyze his teammates based on what they said they looked like, and Saito put a slower CD in the hotel's player that eventually lulled them into awareness of just how late it was.

And Ariadne left, taking down the wall print until there was no sign of it ever having been there, and Yusuf gathered the drawings on the floor.

Arthur took his pens and his coat, still quizzing Eames on his so-called photographic memory, and he made no sign of returning that night. They argued good-naturedly all the way down the hall to Eames' room.

"Thank you, again," said Saito as he gathered up his things. "I'm glad I came."

"I'm glad you came too," admitted Cobb. "Kind of ridiculous, isn't it? These games and stuff, I mean. But it makes you feel better."

"How long now, do you think?" asked Saito.

"Just a few days. Whenever the time is right, we'll hear from the people I have watching Fischer."

"Well," sighed Saito, "I'll see you then."

Cobb nodded.

* * *

The last intrusion came only a few hours later, in the gray space between sleeping and waking, when he realized he'd forgotten to close the blinds and the moon was streaming through the window, lighting up Paris. There was just something so peaceful and sad about it, that Cobb got lost in his thoughts, and almost didn't hear the soft knock at the door.

He figured it would be Arthur, who might have forgotten his key, so he left the lights off and stumbled to the door, his head still fuzzy from the wine.

"Took you long enough," he grumbled as he opened the door and turned to go back to bed. But he heard a slight cough, and it wasn't Arthur, and Saito was standing silhouetted in the hallway light.

"Oh," said Cobb.

"I told myself I wouldn't wake you up, so I'm sorry if I did. I figured you wouldn't hear me if you were asleep, and I'd leave."

"Well I'm not," said Cobb. "Is everything alright?"

He sat back down on the bed, rubbing his eyes, trying to clear his head. It was too dark to see much of anything except the skyline outside.

"I'm not sure," said Saito. "I feel... wrong."

His voice was uncharacteristically quiet. Not in a meditative, calculated way like Cobb was used to. Unsteady quiet.

"You feel wrong, or this feels wrong? This job?" Cobb lay down on the pillows. "Nerves?"

"Nerves." Saito laughed. "You'd think by now, I'd be better at this, but I can't stop thinking about it."

"It happens to the best of us." Cobb glanced at the end of the bed, aware that something was pressing at Saito's mind, and he wasn't going to leave until he'd spoken it. "Sit down."

He was aware of the blunt tiredness in his voice and tried to hold it back for Saito's sake. He tended to snap, and he didn't always mean it.

Saito accepted. He was still dressed, except his coat, and slouched wearily.

"How bad is it?" asked Cobb.

"I haven't been sleeping."

"That could be lots of things," said Cobb. "The drugs. They mess with your mind. They make regular sleep harder."

"It's not the drugs," said Saito. "It's me. I'm going to mess this up. I'm thinking of staying behind."

"Bit late for that," laughed Cobb, but he stopped when Saito didn't return the humor. "Hey, you're fine. Whatever happens happens, regardless of whether or not you're in it. It's just a dream."

"It's more than that and you know it. There's know point in softening it. I know you, Mr. Cobb." Saito smiled. "We're the same."

"I'm starting to believe that myself."

"Thank you, anyway."

Cobb leaned back on the pillow and shut his eyes. "What for?"

"For listening."

"And thank you for the... donations. It's really helped. You saw how they were. You certainly didn't have to."

"I'm happy to help however you'll let me," said Saito quietly.

"How about you, Mr. Saito?"

"What do you mean?"

Cobb sighed. "Who's helping you out? Do you have everything you need before we do the job?"

"That hardly matters." Saito laughed.

"It does, and you know that, so stop acting like it doesn't. Like you said, we're the same. If anyone understands, I do."

There was a soft noise on the carpet as Saito kicked off his shoes, and Cobb felt the opposite side of the bed sink slightly with a new weight. He turned his head, and Saito was lying there, staring at him skeptically with one eyebrow raised.

"I'm serious," Cobb laughed. "You know me. I'm a mess."

"Are you calling _me_ a mess, Mr. Cobb?"

"If you were doing alright, you wouldn't be lying a foot from me, complaining about insomnia."

Saito considered this, sighed, and rolled over to stare up at the ceiling. They were silent for a minute, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. Cobb didn't notice they'd stopped talking until it had been a while.

"If it makes you feel any better," he whispered, "I always get uneasy before a job, and it's been years."

Saito didn't respond. His breathing was quiet and steady.

"You know Murphy's Law, right?" Cobb added. "It's like that. I mean, anything that can happen is going to happen, but we prepare for that kind of thing. We look out for each other in the dream, and we'll get through it."

Saito's breathing was slightly more drawn out, almost shaky. He sighed and rolled over, his back to Cobb, and Cobb heard his breath catch slightly on the inhale.

"Hey," Cobb said. "Hey, take it easy, okay? We'll-" He hesitated to promise anything, because he couldn't promise anything. It was all art and no science from here on out.

So he gave up trying to be scientific and reached out, touching Saito's arm and offering gentle pressure. He shifted until his entire arm was over Saito's back, and Saito didn't move away.

"Hey," said Cobb, more quietly. "Breathe."

He felt a slight return in pressure against his hand. A delicate acknowledgement. He regretted the things he couldn't promise to ease Saito's nerves, but he knew what he _could_ promise.

"We look after each other in the dream," said Cobb, pressing his forehead against Saito's shoulder. "That's how we always do it. We're a team. I promise, no matter what happens, no matter how bad it gets, I've got your back, okay? If anything goes wrong, I promise I'll take care of you."

There was a brief silence, but it was warm.

"Thank you," was the reply, "for everything."


End file.
